[Honestly, it's all Rip can do to keep from sitting up straight and withdrawing himself fully from what has so quickly shifted from something recklessly heated to a far more humiliating thing. This is not a problem he's encountered before--and then the thought strikes that he's only ever attempted this with one other person before, and perhaps it's fitting that when he dares consider it again, he finds himself unable to meet muster.

He braces a hand on the arm next to Peggy's head; beside her temple, his fingers tighten against the fabric.

Where she finds it a simple matter to seek out his gaze, Rip is determined to look anywhere but. His head turns towards one side, away from the couch and away from her, and when he catches sight of the few swallows of rum left in the bottle he (rather ironically) wishes there might be a good deal more in the glass. Yet she doesn't grant him escape; it works out well, considering the hole Rip suddenly desires to swallow him whole has yet to appear. Her assurance, dry thought it might be, offers something that doesn't quite merit the label comfort, but equally doesn't fall far off that measure.]

Oh, I'm fairly certain it's me. [Funny; Peggy's first thought is to question herself, and for Rip that is in no way a possibility. He runs his tongue across his lips, swallows against a suddenly dry mouth, shakes his head all in the span of stretched-out seconds that take entirely too long to tick by.

Funny how not all that long ago, he'd brashly decided not to apologize.]

I am--so, so sorry. [Dear lord, what has this night even become? Rip takes a breath, still unable to even look at Peggy; suddenly all the brazen courage provided by the drink seems to have abandoned him, the pleasure of that dizzy buzz now morphed into annoyance.] It would appear that I'm having some, ah. Technical issues.

[Yes, that hole could appear any moment now, thank you kindly universe.]